Rain
by Paper Pieces
Summary: ...maybe if you hold him tight enough, you can hold on to his innocence....(ode to Chris)


            A/N- More Chris musings…Mmmm I love me some Chris…This one is more me than the actual series, though I'm finding my intuitions about Chris to be more or less accurate, which is scaring me a little. Also, I really haven't had time to get a beta yet, with school and all. Any comments/helpful critiques are welcome. 

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            You stare at him.

            The tiny bundle of flesh and bones that sleeps so peacefully on the floor of the conservatory. 

            As his little chest rises and falls, lifting his body slightly and then returning it to the soft blanket, your mind wanders, flowing and floating on the infant's breaths. 

            He has no idea. 

            You'd seen his pictures before, the contemplative, stoic baby with wild blonde hair and chubby cheeks. You'd seen videos, eating cheerios in a high chair, playtime with his dear mother, orbing into someone's arms on command, and in all of them, he never showed much knowledge of the world around him. 

            He was always thinking. Up until your memories begin and after, he was always thinking, like he could never make up his mind. 

            You never noticed it until now. You knew he was smart. He wrote spells, came up with plans, made the last minute decisions to save the day. But he was your big brother, you thought, champion witch and perfect human being. 

            And you knew, like all little brothers, you hated him for it. You were reduced to the goofy sidekick. Your temper got you in trouble, he would bail you out. Your stubbornness made you make mistakes, he would clean them up. You'd fall short in your abilities, he would help you up, tell you what you were doing wrong, and make you try again. He was a pain in the ass sometimes, an unrealistic standard you thought you had to reach.  

            But you still loved him.  

            Even after, you still loved him. 

            But maybe you, like everyone else, was too caught up in his perfection. You never saw the pain and confusion underneath. 

            He was so serious. He was so intense in everything he did. You thought it was passion for the good he did, but instead, it was a blanketing compensation for the fact that the quiet, powerful little boy didn't know anything about who he was or why he was doing what he was doing.

            He was ripe for the picking, and you couldn't see it until now.

            His right hand moves gently in a sober, sleepy stretch. You rest your head against the doorframe of the conservatory. Your hand rubs your eye concurring with the resting baby and the dull atmosphere of the gathering clouds outside the house. It's just the right mood for an afternoon rain shower. 

            When you were little, both loved to play in the rain. You would shriek and jump in puddles, laughing as the fat drops of water pounded against your skin. Half the fun was making your aunts chase after you, annoyed, the water soaking their clothes and hair, muttering curses as they tackled you in the mud as you laughed and laughed. 

            Your brother, however, never ran or jumped or played in such showers. He would stand in the middle of the yard, content in watching you make a fool of yourself. He would smile at you, almost wistfully, like he wanted to join you, like he wanted to be you. Then he would look up to the clouds overhead, close his eyes, and let the rain drain over his face. He would never lead a chase, either. At the sound of his name, he would immediately orb into the house, dripping wet, looking like a used rag, shivering so badly that he would only get a small lecture and sent to bed. 

            Now, you wonder what he was thinking, standing so solitary in the middle of the storm. You wonder what he did when you weren't with him. 

            He never had many friends. He never spoke of them outside of school. At recess, while you played with anyone and everyone who would have you, he sat alone on the swings, muttering words, and writing them down. When your aunt had found this collection of spells, he was immediately ordered to cease. 

            You never understood why. Spells weren't harmful unless you read them, you reasoned.  

            At home, he was different. He would smile sometimes, making up games that you would teach the other kids at school the next day. Such memories were precious to you, for they were the only ones with your kin that lacked a demon or two. 

            But even, as you grew in years and within their powers, your relationship as brothers never lacked in love and companionship. You trusted him; you thought he trusted you.

            But trust can be broken. 

            Love can be tainted. 

            Companionship can fail. 

            These thoughts throb at your temple, yet you continue to think them. You cannot ever stop thinking about them. Perhaps, when it was set right, then you would rest; you could stop searching, stop hunting for the source of evil that stripped you of your life, and your home, and your family. You could stop wadding around in the pain that this place, these people made you feel at the sight of them. 

            They know now. They know a few of your many secrets, where you come from, who you are, what you are. 

            In some ways, it was a relief. The trust followed more freely. There was more communication, more acceptance. 

            But you know they can never know what you feel. They can never know the events that you have lived. They can never know the brother you knew. They can never know what their lives hold for them. 

            Every agonizing slip jeopardizes the many you left to save one. 

            You never talk about your friends, the people that looked you in the eye with hope and fear and said goodbye and good luck. 

            You never talk about the resistance, the innocent people that fought against your own flesh-and-blood, that pray for you and your success. 

            You never talk about the ones that died to get you here, ones that haven't even been born, yet remained in your thoughts. 

            They are always in your thoughts. 

            You mind has become a very troubling place. The distractions help less and less, and as much as you try to hide, they see the pain in you. 

            They always could. 

            They could always see the pain in both of you.

            So, why didn't they stop him?

            His voice echoes in the back of your mind even now, years after yet before. His tiny childhood laugh morphs into a grown, mature cackle that stirred anger in you, anger that you have never fully be able to bury. 

            You clench your fists and look away from your charge. Your hand began to shake with frustration as you forced the feelings down, try to squash them, seal them up inside your body until a better time. 

            The screaming starts again. You can see their faces, many faces, faces that look away from you in fear before they are struck down, the life ripped from them. 

            Innocents,

            Your friends,

            Your cousins,

            Your aunts,

            Your mother…

            Your body began to shake, your terror, your anger, your sorrow wrenching itself from your muscles and your skin and your blood. You breath harder, desperate to regain control of your emotions that run like a sudden, raging flood in your consciousness. 

            Screams of pain burst from your chest like a shaking explosion. Sobs of fear beat at your brain. You can taste bitterness on the back of your tongue but only smell and see blood. Your lungs feel shattered and hands numb. 

            A clap of thunder

            A new crying

            The baby rolled himself on his back, face red and tears wetting the blushed cheeks. 

            You touch your eyes and look to the darkening sky behind the thick glass. The sound of the roaring downpour matches the sensation of your own tears against your skin. 

            You look back at the child. He is no longer the monster your mind's eye sees, but the child, the innocence, the clean vessel that he is in this moment. Fearfully, he shrieks against the sounds of the storm, fearful in the way only a child could be of something he has yet to understand. 

            You rush to him, falling to your knees and scooping him up into your arms. As his crying fades, you clutch him tightly to your body, arms pressed against his clothes and skin. 

            Maybe if you hold him tight enough, he will never become that solemn confused child. Maybe he will never become that boy that wrote the torture spells against your classmates. Maybe he will never look into his aunt's dying eyes with that cold, calculated stare. 

            Maybe if you hold him tight enough, you can hold on to his innocence. 

            Maybe if you hold him tight enough, you can take up some innocence for yourself.

            Maybe then he can forgive you for ignoring the pleas to wallow in your own selfish insecurities and self doubt.

            Maybe then you can forgive yourself.

            Your body tingles. It takes a moment to register the fat drops of water pounding against your skin. You stare at the child who now sits in your arms, staring back through the rain with all the power in his soul. 

            He looks up at the clouds overhead as the water splashes against his face and lets out a gargantuan shriek of laughter.

            The muscles in your mouth ache as they shift and pull your lips into a smile. You haven't smiled in so long. 

            You would not be able to tell why the infant orbed you outside on the muddy lawn as the rain came down. You would not be able to explain how he knows to. 

            But in that moment, he knows you are his brother; he knows your past, his future, and the battle you fight each day; and that laughter, that innocent, wondrous, knowing laughter tells you everything. 

            For a moment, you have your brother again.

            And when she calls your name again, you quietly orb into the nursery and lay the damp baby down to sleep in his white crib, wondering if you have the strength and the courage. 

            For you know you have the will. 


End file.
